


Cornered

by Zavadovici



Category: God’s Own Country (2017)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-08-21 14:38:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16578422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zavadovici/pseuds/Zavadovici
Summary: Johnny Saxby, farmer and amateur boxer, meets his match the hard way...





	1. Banned

A cyclist emerged from the twilight rainy gloom, free-wheeling downhill on the road leading into town. The gangly figure hunched over the handlebars had a broad streak of wet mud up the middle of his back; the bike was missing its rear mudguard. The lad glided to a halt outside the gothic doorway of a former Methodist chapel. The battered sign over the entrance read ‘Keighle oxing Club’. The lad bounded up the steps and into the large open planned gym.  
‘Saxby... late again... get a move on’..  
‘Sorry coach.. beasts needed their dinner...’  
John Saxby changed into his boxing kit; worn leather boxing boots, faded cotton vest, old satin shorts (from his dads amateur days and they were getting tight). He sat alone in the gym changing room, his mind on autopilot, winding the hand wraps onto his work-worn calloused fingers. He’d done this hundreds of times before. He was hungry.. the pint of milk he’d gulped down while rushing out of the house had merely wetted his appetite. He was used to training on an empty stomach. Like so much else in his life, he’d just got used to it, and bore the dull ache of hunger as he bore the rest of his existence - with an abstract resentful resignation.  
The warm-up and stretch session over, it was time for sparring. This was what John looked forward to. When in the ring, boxing was the only time he felt alive... worth something. It gave him his sole outlet for the aggression and rage he felt seething inside him. His sparring partner tonight was Del, a big 22 year old who lived with his parents in town. He worked on a battery chicken farm, processing poultry by the thousand. He smelled of raw chicken and, noted John with disgust, even his goose pimpled skin resembled that of a chicken. The bell rang and off they went, parrying, ducking, feinting, jabbing. Building on the punch combinations, John was a lot faster than his lumbering opponent and started landing stinging blows, getting cocky. Then Del stuck out his drumstick arm and landed a smacking solid jab to the jaw, right through Johns guard, dazing him with pain and staggering him backwards. And then, right on cue, it was if a switch flipped in his brain and the red mist of fury descended. He lunged forward with a flurry of punches, beating Del about the head and body, on and on until the man was cowering under the rain of blows..the coaches were in the ring in a trice, dragging John off Del and throwing him out of the ring...  
‘I’ve warned thee time and again Saxby... your fuckin’ temper will be the end of you. This is boxing- the Noble Art of Self Defence’.. it’s not your excuse for licensed violence against mankind. Now fuck off out of this gym. You’re banned for 2 weeks and if your attitude doesn’t change you’ll be out of here for good, d'you hear me?’  
‘Aye’ muttered John ‘I’ve heard you’.  
He spat his gum shield out and marched off to the changing room. Sulkily, he showered, changed and exited the gym in less than ten minutes. On the bike, he powered furiously back up the hill out of the town, higher and higher to the point where the dry-stone walled grazing petered out into open moor. He steered the bike off the road and down a deeply rutted farm track for half a mile until he reached a dilapidated farmhouse, dimly lit on the ground floor. Silently, sullenly, he stepped inside and took off his waterproof coat. Two pairs of eyes regarded him questioningly.  
‘Back early’ said Nan.  
‘Trouble’ said Dad.  
The stroke had severely limited his dads speech, but since he’d never said much anyway, neither John nor Nan had noticed any difference. John didn’t respond. Nan placed a bowl of lamb stew in front of him. He wolfed it down, muttered ‘Night’, and climbed the narrow stairs to his room. He stripped off and, shivering, slipped into the cold narrow bed. He stared up bleakly at the brown stain on the ceiling, the result of an old rainwater leak. When he was little he’d imagined it as the map of a huge unexplored country. Now, he imagined it as the map of a small island, marooned in a vast empty ocean. 

He lay in bed stretched out, cursing himself for losing his temper like that again in the ring. The thought of being banned from the boxing gym, the only one in Keighley, made his blood run cold. Boxing was his only means of getting out of the house, escaping the drudge of farm work for a couple of hours, and , however briefly, of becoming someone different: not necessarily more likeable nor even more interesting, just someone other than the John Saxby he knew and loathed.

He’d started boxing aged seven. His dad had first taken him to the gym a couple of months after that day; the day his life had taken a drastic turn for the worse; the day no little boy should have to face. The day his mother abandoned him.


	2. Intruders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unwelcome newcomers at the gym

The seven year-old Johnny Saxby had started bullying the other boys at school after his mother left, beating them up in the playground for no other reason than domination and an eagerness to use his fists. Often he got beaten in return, with gangs of kids laying into him and taunting him, in the cruel way that kids can be, about his absent mother. When some concerned parents visited Martin Saxby, they could see that he was in no fit state to either discipline or parent his young son. A couple of them then went to Mrs Saxby senior, to implore her to intervene in the train-crash of the Saxby household. That’s when she went back to the farm for Martin and Johnny, and that’s when the former took the latter down to the boxing gym, delivering him into the care of Jim the old trainer. The whole town knew that Martin Saxbys missus had gone and no-one was surprised the lad was going off the rails, poor little blighter. 

Johnny Saxby took to boxing like a duck to water. He discovered he had a natural gift for it and by his early teens he was one of the amateur stars of the gym. At 20 he was a 6’1 lanky long-reaching middleweight. With relentless exercise and discipline, he learnt to keep his temper in check - some of the time. . He was fast in the ring, but self-destructive. He was often disqualified for low blows or head butting, often banned from the gym for disrespect to the trainers or random acts of violence. He developed a reputation as a sour, bad-tempered troublemaker. He was tolerated because he was talented. But he wasn’t liked. So at 24 John Saxbys character was formed- a product of his genes and circumstance. A big fit strong fighter, unpredictable, introverted, unsociable. He had no friends. By day he slogged on the farm with his dad, (with Martins stroke, the work load doubled) and by night he boxed. There was nothing else to do. He had no girlfriends, no boyfriends. Not one lad in the gym was gay and he wasn’t interested in them anyway. He got his shags in random hook ups in toilets and alleyways - men following him back from the gym. But there were never any repeats - they felt his isolation, self-loathing and the seething undercurrent of violence which rendered him liable to start beating up the man he was screwing mid-fuck. Several threatened to call the police, so even these quick encounters faded away after a while..he just had wanks in his tiny draughty room on his single bed. Subconsciously he was relieved as he didn’t have to engage with anyone else, however superficially.

Thursday boxing night at the gym came round again, and in addition to the usual dozen or so local boys, there were three newbies. John thought they looked like a pack of furtive, wolfish Romany gypsies. They were viewed with suspicion by the white working class lads, and several went back to the changing room to put their gym bags in the lock-up lockers rather than leaving them out as usual. Two of the newcomers were short and stocky, probably brothers, with that blank Balkan look about them as if they weren’t interested in boxing, life, people, or anything in fact. The third one was tall, swarthy and confident-looking. After warming up, they put him in to spar with a lad his height and weight. John was focussed on his own bag work but he was peripherally aware the Romanian knew his stuff alright: fast, solid jab, good footwork. At the end of the three rounds he was barely sweating, while the other lad was wrung out, doubled over and gasping for breath. The man glanced over in Johns general direction and their gazes crossed for a split second. John felt his ears going red, interpreting the look, as he generally did, as one of scorn. But he had the odd feeling of being mind-read and almost physically recoiled from the sensation. He showered quickly, dressed and bounded down the stairs. At the bottom, Jim the trainer was having a quiet word with the three new lads as they departed. John pushed past them and through the door. He walked on, without looking back.

As he reached his bike, there was a young man walking down from the pub on the other side of the street. John recognised him. Their glances met, and the lad turned into the shadow-filled deserted alley at the backs of the houses. John followed him quietly. It was so dark he only located the lad from the sound of his breathing... but that suited John just fine... no talking. The lad had already eased his trousers down and spread his legs, wanting it, greedy for it. And Saxby wasn’t hanging around. His hand over the lads mouth, muffling his groans, Saxby fucked hard and fast, face set in a grimace of determined lust. He came quickly, banging the lad against the brick wall and grazing his face... he pulled out, cast away the condom and zipped up. He spun on his heel without a word, crossed back over the road, mounted his bike, and peddled off. By the time he arrived home, he’d actually forgotten the boy in the alley. But what he didn’t forget from that evening was the glance from the Romanian, with its momentary transmission of knowledge, shame and guilt. A sense of profound unease enveloped John Saxbys dulled mind, which faded only when he rolled over and slid into a dreamless oblivion.


	3. Sprint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnny goes for a run..

Monday was gym night. John went through his normal routine of warm-up, skipping, bag-work. He vaguely wondered where the Romanian had gone, but he was exhausted from a heavy days work on the farm and it was all he could do to muster enough energy to get through the four rounds of sparring. 

On Thursday the swarthy Romanian was back. His previous sparring partner did a no-show, so it was he and John who touched gloves for the sparring session. The foreigner moved surprisingly fast; and every time John tagged him with a connecting punch, an answer came right back in the form of a body blow, cross or hook. Every time John stepped in, his opponent was covered… It flashed through Johnny’s mind that this man knew, absolutely knew, his second-to-second thought processes. And as that thought came into his head, his sparring partner bared his teeth through the gum shield in a knowing grin at him. He DID know.. Like some Romanian gypsy fortune teller! The clever sod, thought John, had an answer for every tactic he could throw at him. At the start of the third round, the Romanian advanced with a flurry of stinging blows and Saxby, frustrated, was starting to get angry. ‘Watch it’, growled his coach, in the tone used to warn a dog against biting. He knew from long experience how John could lose the plot if he got angry and it was therefore no surprise to him when Saxby started clubbing the Romanian, laying into him like in a street fight. The foreigner covered up, backing into a corner. He sported a bloody nose as John ripped into him. And as before, the irate farmer was dragged off his opponent. Jim, his faithful trainer, who’d watched the young fighter grow from boy to man, had seen enough. Attacking the other local lads in the ring was bad enough, but to try it on this new man, a guest in the UK from abroad, finally put the lid on it.  
‘Right that’s it Mister no-self-control Saxby. You had your last chance and you blew it. Never come back to this gym. You’ve been warned time and again and we’ve all had enough of you. I’ll be sending a note to your Dad and Nan explaining things. You’ve let me down. You’ve let them down, but most of all you’ve let yourself down. OUT.’

Two weeks later and John Saxby was still nursing two black eyes, a sore nose and a sore ego. He was too proud to apologise. ‘Fuck ‘em all’, he muttered to himself, and went for a run up the hill instead. It was a clear late afternoon and when he reached the summit, he lay in the heather to get his breath back and watched the birds wheeling above him. Among them was a woodcock plunging and swooping and almost unwatchable in the randomness of its flight. It doubled back on itself in a totally illogical flight path, not seeming to know where it was even going. A solitary creature with no direction.

He jogged back down the hill toward town. A dense mist descended and the dusk drew in. There was a man running ahead of him in the fog, at just about the same pace but marginally slower. John drew closer and recognised the man. It was the Romanian, lolloping along in even strides. He was breathing slowly … man he was fit… John drew alongside… the man didn’t even glance at him… just kept going at his pace…. John accelerated, overtook him and pulled away without looking back… But he’d over exerted himself and at the next slight rise in the road, the Romanian drew alongside again. The ground levelled out and they were neck and neck, not sprinting but just upping the gears. And again John had that sensation of being mind-read… they were perfectly matched in speed and acceleration. And now they were sprinting flat-out – John was pulling on every reserve of strength he had. The only marker ahead of them was a street lamp and they both understood instinctively that this was the finish line. They raced up to the light and at the last second John managed to gain a couple of inches and finish in front of the Romanian. They dropped off speed and slowed to a jog, then to a groaning, gasping doubled-up walk… John glanced over… ‘bloody gyppo loser’ he thought; and then caught his adversary’s grin. And John knew why he was grinning. He had let him win. John was speechless with anger and bewilderment. Without a shadow of a doubt, the man had allowed him that victory… What John couldn’t understand was why…


	4. Respect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnny hurts his hand

A call came through a couple days later from the Jim at the gym. They’d have him back because the Romanian was turning out to be good and they needed decent sparring partner. John was the only one around, and although he’d sworn they’d not have him back, they didn’t have anyone else. John guessed it was the Romanian – Georghe his name apparently – who’d asked them to give him another chance. He hated the thought that after 15 years at that boxing gym, he was being patronised by a newcomer who’d been there 5 minutes. The thought made him grind his teeth and he vowed revenge… but he also realised he was on probation and any transgression really would mean a life ban.

So Thursday came and John walked up the gym steps at the appointed time. The Romanian came straight up to him and stuck out his hand.  
‘Gheorghe’ he said evenly.  
‘John’ mumbled John, not looking at him.  
Georghe’s hand was solid, warm and dry. John’s was solid, cold and damp. They changed, warmed up, skipping, bag work. The two men gloved up for sparring – 16 ounce gloves, head guard, groin guard. As before, the first round was even matched - but John realised he’d have to pull something out of the bag if he was to have any hope of teaching this cocky foreigner a lesson. He remembered the woodcock.. swooping, feinting, doing the unexpected… So John started doing the same, switching from orthodox to southpaw and back, ducking in random ways both fast and illogical. And the Romanian was confounded. John caught him with jabs and hooks, to which his opponent had no answers. But faced with Georghe’s mounting confusion, somehow John couldn’t bring himself to take advantage and press home a clobbering cross or uppercut. He was into his new-found technique of the sparring. He was really enjoying the flow and didn’t want to stop. The fourth round finished and they touched gloves. The two men looked at each other; John enervated with glee at his performance; Georghe with a look of bemusement and the first filaments of a new respect.  
Walking out of the gym, Gheorghe stopped in the entrance. When John came down the steps he said,  
‘Er- I was planning to train on Sunday… would you like to spar a bit more?’ Gheorghe asked the question in the tone of someone who fully expects to be turned down.  
So John’s ‘Yeah OK then’ surprised them both equally.  
‘See you at eleven, Sunday then’ said Georghe, and trotted off. John stared after him, shrugged to himself and turned home.

Sunday arrived. John went down to the gym 45 minutes early to warm up. The Romanian was already there, in his boxing gear. Bare-chested, he finished punching the heavy bag and turned as John entered the gym. And his physicality hit John like a brick. The man was beautiful. John stood for a second drinking in the sight, his mouth half open. Gheorghe stood there grinning at John until the latter, unable to stop himself, gave him a shy, grudging shadow of a grin back. He went to change and took a few deep breaths.  
They sparred at a cracking pace… Georghe was grinning, clowning. Once he actually made his opponent smile. John threw out solid jabs – and at the close of the third round he backed Georghe into a corner, threw a left hook, and as Georghe ducked, his thumb awkwardly clipped the metal tightening bolt of the rings top rope. John cursed loudly ‘Ouch … Fuck!’. Georghe stopped immediately. ‘Are you ok?’ He actually seemed concerned.  
‘Yeah yeah its nowt .. just a thumb strain’, muttered John.  
‘Come here.. let me look’ said Georghe.  
They sat facing each other on a weights bench. Georghe took Johns gloved hand, undid the Velcro strap and eased his glove off. With the utmost care he unwound the handwrap.  
‘It’s nowt,’ said John. ‘It’ll be ‘reet in a day or so.’  
Gheorghe didn’t agree ‘Careful - it could be dislocated or torn’. With the gentleness of a doctor he took John’s hand in both his and brought it up to examine the thumb, gently pressing.  
‘Does this hurt? .. And this?.’  
Satisfied the injury was not serious, he turned over Johns hand and gave it back.  
‘I think its ok. It’s a sprain. It’ll be tender for a while, that’s all… but no more boxing today I think’.  
John was taken aback by his sparring partners gentleness. It was the first time in years anyone had shown him any spontaneous concern. And it was as if the combined sparks of Gheorges kindness, coupled with his obvious physical beauty, at that moment lit a tiny fire in the frozen core of John Saxbys soul. And he allowed himself the tiniest of smiles.  
‘What?’ asked Gheorghe, looking at him.  
‘Nowt’ replied John. But it wasn’t nowt. A seismic shift had taken place, deep underground.


	5. Gheorghe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A boxer ponders his opponent

Gheorghe Ionescu had come to Keighley with his two mates from London to escape the city and the drudge of working on building sites with huge teams of Eastern Europeans. He found Keighley less hostile than London and as he had been a good amateur boxer back home, joined the local club. 

One look told him his sparring partners were going to be well below the level he was used to.. save the sullen and surly fit lad in the tight shorts beating the punch bag as if he hated every fibre of its horsehair stuffing. And when they finally got into the ring for some sparring, it was clear the man had no self-control and was psychologically hopelessly damaged. After his subsequent encounter with the man, running in the fog, Gheorghe had gone back to his bedsit and ruminated on the English. He sighed to himself. Why were they all so damn screwed up? A mass of contradictions. This John Saxby was a talented fighter but despite his age, unable to contain his aggression. When their glances had first crossed for that brief second, the man had flinched as if Gheorghe had spat at him. What could have happened to him to make him like that? And then when they’d had that bizarre race in the fog... Gheorghe had had the impression that for the other man, winning had been of vital importance for him. So he’d let him have it. But he hadn’t been quick enough in arranging his expression and the man had seen, and knew, and resented... Gheorghe sighed again. You couldn’t win with these people. 

But then something had changed. When they’d had their quiet sparring session that Sunday and Saxby had hurt his thumb, and allowed him to have a look at it, Gheorghe had almost felt he’d been allowed to look beneath his hard brittle surface, afforded a glimpse of John Saxbys inner self. And what did he see? Nothing more than a shy, confused man-boy. Mature enough to work like a dog (the calloused hands), but hopelessly retarded in establishing basic human relationships. 

There was something else. Something which hit him like a body blow and which had left him dumbstruck. The way John Saxby looked at him for a second as he handed him back his injured hand, a look of gratitude, admiration and hope, gave him the glimpse of a man with the sweetest, gentlest nature he thought he had ever encountered. The look was there only for the briefest instant before being replaced with Johns habitual guarded expression, but Gheorghe saw, and was utterly smitten. 

Since that moment, now two weeks ago, his mind had been in a tailspin. He hadn’t been able to face going back to the gym. They must have wondered what had happened to him. He smiled to himself, imagining the absurdity of his reply when he finally did go back- ‘Sorry for my absence. John Saxby hurt his thumb and as a result I fell in love with him and haven’t been able to face up to the fact.’ 

The smile dropped off his face, to be replaced with a look of the deepest seriousness.


	6. Last hurdle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys grow up

John Saxby sat on a bench in the emptying gym, after training on a Thursday night. He’d been tacitly allowed back, even though it had now been three weeks since the Romanian had been seen or heard from.

He’d stayed behind to speak to Jim. His old trainer walked over to the light switches and started flicking them off. He looked over at John and jangled his keys. ‘C’mon you’.

‘Jim, I need to say summat to yer’..

The man looked surprised. ‘Say summat? You? You never say owt!’

‘I know.. it’s just that.. I’ve been thinking a bit lately and I reckon I owe you an apology’.

Jim stared at him. ‘What’s brought this on? You’ve never said ‘sorry’ in - how long- seventeen years?’   
His face softened when he saw John look downcast. He went over, sat next to him on the bench, and put an arm round Johns shoulders. ‘Go on, tell me’...

‘Nowt to tell really. I know I’m a mardy arse. I know the lads don’t like me, with good reason. I know it must be difficult for you putting up with me. And I reckon it’s about time I said so.’

Jim looked at him kindly. ‘You’re a good lad Johnny Saxby, I’ve always thought so. It’s just, with yer mam disappearing and yer dad not being the easiest of men, no disrespect, you’ve just been dealt a bad hand of cards. Come on’.

They stood up and Jim held out his hand. ‘And of course you’re welcome in this gym any time you want’.

John gave him the ghost of a smile and looking down, shook Jim’s hand. ‘Thanks boss’, he mumbled.

‘And I’ll tell thee summat else. That Romanian, Gheorghe; took a proper shine to you, he did. And I reckon you should stick around him; be a good friend to you he will, if he comes back... and maybe more besides’.

John stared at him, a veil of hostility shielding his face immediately. ‘What d’you mean by that, like?’

‘Now don’t get on yer high horse with me Mr Saxby. Your ears are going red and I’ll clip ‘em like I used to when you were a nipper. I’ve seen every kind of lad pass through this gym and nobody, including you, can hide their true nature, not when they step through them ropes. And that Romanian saw something in you he reckoned was of some value, and you should fuckin’ hold onto that. Grab it, coz your chances to be happy dwindle as you get older, dwindle to nothing. Right: now I’ve said my piece and it’s lock-up time.’

Jim turned the key in the gym door and pulling his collar up against the drizzle, ambled off up the street to his car. John brushed the rain water off the bench outside and sat down for a smoke. He took a puff on the cigarette, his brows drew together for a moment, and then his features cleared in resolve. He muttered out loud:

‘I’ve got to go find him... I want to go find him’...

‘Find who?’ said a voice right next to him. John started up from the bench.

‘Fuckin hell! You could’ve given me a fuckin’ heart att....’

He trailed off as he squinted in the street light and a face came into focus.

‘Sorry... I didn’t mean to startle you’, said Gheorghe.

John, heart in his throat, attempted an air of unconcern.   
‘Not seen you awhile... bin away?’ 

He thought Gheorghe looked nervous.

‘Er.. well.. kind of.. How’s your hand?’

‘Yeah.. good... healing ok... Takes time doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, healing takes time’.

They had run out of things to say, both of them standing in the rain, tongue-tied, looking at each other.

Gheorghe’s heart was racing but he was lost for words. He felt a hopelessness envelope him like a yawn. After a long silence he murmured, ‘Well I guess I’d better be....’

‘Yeah.... ok’. blurted John. Shyness was swallowing him like the night. 

Gheorghe turned and started walking up the street. John felt sick in his stomach with panic.

‘Gheorghe’ he whispered.

The Romanian turned around, and looked at him. He walked back to John, took his head gently in his hands and kissed him softly on the lips. John stood rooted to the spot in shock for a moment, then stepped close in and sought out Gheorghe’s mouth with his own: lingering, inexpert. Their tongues met and entwined and John felt dizzy with a surge of need... And then Gheorghe was kissing Johns face and ears and neck and laughing as he reciprocated. 

Over the coming months with Gheorghe, John became a different man. He blossomed like a flower, opening up to everything Gheorghe showed him, and with his life filled with love, he felt he would die of happiness. Nan and Dad thought Gheorghe was the best thing since sliced bread. He moved into the farmhouse with John and loved the enforced closeness of their single bed. 

They woke up early one morning wrapped up in the most complicated way, all arms and legs entwined and locked together. Looking up, Gheorghe remarked in surprise,

‘What is that brown shape on the ceiling?’

‘Water stain’, mumbled John, his mouth wedged in Gheorghe’s armpit, his tongue starting to ticklishly explore.

‘It’s an exact map of Romania!’ said Gheorghe ’where I’m taking you when we get a holiday.’

‘And in the meantime?’

‘In the meantime we’ll try some new moves that you can’t learn in a boxing ring.’ 

He rolled on top of the farmer, pinning him down. He loved seeing Johns blue eyes alight with desire.   
He slowly started kissing and licking, exploring Johns body from top to toe. And later, after they had expended more energy on each other than ten rounds of heavy sparring, they fell asleep again in each other’s arms; a pattern that was to be repeated for many years hence.


End file.
